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many of the witches were young-faced and
beautiful, there were just as many who
appeared middle-aged, some even elderly.
How old they must have been to become so
withered, Dorian couldn’t fathom. He had
little doubt they could kill him with ease.
The coven leader pointed toward the neat
rows of tents, and the gathered warriors
parted, the wall of brooms and weapons
shining in the dying light.
“So,” an ancient voice said as the ranks
stepped back to reveal the one to whom the
Crochan had pointed. Not yet bent with age,
but her hair was white with it. Her blue eyes,
however, were clear as a mountain lake. “The
hunters have now become the hunted.”
The ancient witch paused at the edge of her
ranks, surveying Manon. There was kindness
on the witch’s face, Dorian noted—and
wisdom. And something, he realized, like